Always
by Stephane Richer
Summary: I've been here before a few times, and I'm quite aware we're dying.


Always

Disclaimer: I don't own JK Rowling's Harry Potter or Blink-182's "Always".

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His hands are shaking like an earthquake, because there's an earthquake inside of him but you can't see it or hear it or feel it, but his body is shifting and uprooting itself from the inside out and if you glance really closely, if you know him really well, if you don't just see the arrogant coward, he's sweating. This amount of sweat, a small amount by anyone else's standards, is profuse by his. Well, no, it's not sweat, it's _perspiration._ What was that his mother always said? Horses sweat; men perspire; ladies glow. Well, he's perspiring all right. Perspiring and shaking and oh god he might have a seizure, is this what panic, true panic feels like?

Staring down a dark lord, outracing cursed fire, trying to kill a feeble old man—all that's kid stuff compared to this. This makes anything else look easy. He admits (not freely, mind you, only to his most inner self) that he's a coward, he's a pussy, he always takes the easy way out. But this time, there is no easy way.

See, no one ever tells you how to break up with a girl. Especially not when this girl is the top girl in your class in every subject and you're the top boy (only counting Slytherins of course; Ravenclaws and mudbloods are pathetic, useless, and utterly irrelevant), everyone has always assumed you two are and will always be together—you're the ultimate golden couple. So why is his relationship with her so empty, apathetic? His parents don't really love one another (they married for blood, naturally) but they do have a few things in common and never seem to run out of things to talk about. Draco and Pansy are just awkward silences and even more awkward sex and even more awkward lying in bed together, pretending to sleep.

It just doesn't work, at all. He used to count on spending the rest of his life with her. Now he can't bear the thought. She's not especially pretty or charming or rich, or anything that he values. She can be quite cunning, but only when she wants to be, which is seemingly never around him anymore.

He takes a breath, knocks at the door. One… two… three… four.

She's not answering. Maybe they can leave it like this, an unspoken agreement? It would be so much easier this way than having to explain it, draw it out.

He's turning to go when she answers the door, wearing jeans and a blouse (that's as casual as she ever gets) with bare feet and there's something about her, now that he's resolved to let her go, that's kind of enticing. He swiftly kisses her, lets himself in, and she doesn't say a word. Their eyes meet as he takes off his coat, and it's pretty obvious she knows, too.

The atmosphere is getting a little heavy, and she initiates the kiss this time. It's soft and tender in a way that's almost so not Pansy that he wonders for a moment if this is someone under Polyjuice, or maybe her evil (good?) twin. But he pushes that out of his mind because for once it actually feels good, it feels like the plays his parents used to take him to where the wife would help the husband untie his tie after a hard day at work, and he cups her face in his and it fits exactly in a way it never has.

For once, the sex is not awkward. It's not great; there are no fireworks. But it's good, the best they've had yet.

They still say nothing. They've been silent this whole time, a few odd moans notwithstanding. But the silence is not awkward or heavy this time. Draco and Pansy are each lost in their own thoughts, not completely aware of the other. They're not trying to put up a façade now. It's funny, the way they can't really get along with one another until they don't try.

He's having second thoughts about this, but forces them down. Deep down, he knows they'll just go back to square one of awkwardness, all over again, and he'll wish he broke things off when he still had the chance. He lets these thoughts permeate him and rise to the surface from the depths.

They lie there for a while, still quiet. The light outside her window is fading when she gets up and starts to put her clothes back on, slowly. He watches her, takes one good long look at her body.

At least their end isn't explosive. At least he can see it and savour these lasts moments. Most couples don't get this, have all their memories tinged with pain, anger, doubt. Even though he's never really loved her, liked her for herself, he's enjoyed her company sometimes, when she's not being a bitch and whining about some irrelevant thing or pestering him to be more romantic.

He begins to dress himself, finds his clothes from where they're crumpled on the floor. He picks up a brush on her bedside table and runs it through his hair with a frown. Already, it's growing thin. Perhaps he'll never find another woman who will take him, even if it's a bit begrudging.

On the other hand, he's a Malfoy. He's got money. He's got a name. It may be tarnished in the new order, but the old ways are not too dusty yet. The name still holds water.

They exit the room, him following her. He grabs his shoes, his coat, walks toward the door. She does not pull him back. He turns one last time to look at her, and perhaps it is this turn that seals it. The fading light shines off her eyes, glinting with the tears he had no idea she could shed.

Her, crying? It's disgusting and he wheels around once more, slamming the door behind him. His hands are steady; the quake is past.


End file.
